A Diary's House The story of epic love
by epicnovelist
Summary: A Diary's House is of a young boy's attempt to become a man, the once-lost secrets of a diary, a sweeping romance which transcends time and place. It is more than a boy's journey into manhood, but the mysteries of so many lives unknowingly intertwined, now brought together in a climatic ending; all from the engrossing world embedded in a forgotten diary; a diary of a woman.
1. A Diary's House Prologue Episode 1

**Prologue**

**To Begin With….The Lost Cherokee Legend**

**Episode 1 - Introduction**

There is always a birth to each story; the beginning of something anew. Life, above all else, is no exception. It is a time when someone remembers for the first occasion; their memories of family and of home, of first crawls, the first smell of a rose, the first hands in the grass within a meadow field, the first breeze, the first showers; the 'firsts to everything'. How else is a story to have an appropriate, shall we say 'Genesis', than to have a start where a story is most regularly first-born. And as it so happens, this story shall bear its first fruit in the tale and revelry of my initial youth.

How convenient, I suppose, it is for me to be the product of my own yarn. But a story such as this carries its own value and genuine beauty; that it must and most assuredly be told. It could have happened to anyone. Yet, perhaps I was the fortunate one to have it occur so promisingly within my own life.

Now mind you I have become an old man now. One who sits on the park bench in a wayward and remote town deep in the heart and hills of North Carolina. No, no; I certainly wasn't born this way; just to express to you where I have come to in my life. Now I shall share with you where I have come from.

People pay me little or no attention these days. I have learned to partner myself with my own solitude; and I to be resting in the fact that my life has been a very blessed one. Each day, when the sun and weather cooperates, I will find myself steadily passing bread to my pigeon friends, which I have grown to love and know almost by heart and name.

The early morning is always fresh as if it were smartly baked and cooked by the uprising sun, or newly born from the previous night's dew. The tightly-spun breeze moves about the open meadow park at its own leisure, and seemingly leaves its soft whistles in the branches on the trees about. I know the spot well; the one I regularly and prominently go to. If you were a regular here you would see me present in a religious kind of way also. I suppose nature has turned into a sort of Bible to me. This is where I find many of my companions strolling about from tree limb to tree limb, and they picking feverishly at their feathers as they go about.

"Don't suppose you can tell me on your general or specific preferences for bread…" I would watch them pace about at my feet, angle their heads back and forth, pace some more, stare back at me 'blank-eyed' again, and pace even further as I pulled out every assortment of bread known to man, "Cornbread...Eh? How about sweet buns anyone? Biscuit? Muffin? Cottage Loaf? Surely you will take a gander at Yeast rolls…No? Crumpet? Rye? Certainly someone has a taste for Farl?"

They continued about their pacing silently.

"Well – They do say a good friend is one to always listen," I smiled with reflection, "Doesn't say much…"

I paused.

"But if you had the mind to, the mouth to, the tongue to," I laughed, "you might take to talk so much that your feathers would fall off and you would strut about like a long-necked goose without its clothes on."

They paced with even more agitation.

"Now that wouldn't fair too well, would it? It'd get too cold in the winter…and where could you fly to?"

There is Fredrick; having eyes only for the largest share of bread. He takes his dough quite 'wheat-like' thank you, bobbing his head in approval as I toss it to him. Now Jeremy enjoys the smaller scraps as he cares more for the heel than the softer bread. My guess is he has a weak stomach and digestive tract, and he prefers a more hardened supper. Jewels, quite the obstinate fowl, will have the finicky notion of a cat; almost requiring me to feed her from hand-to-mouth, though her colors are oddly beautiful.

Ah yes, and as well, Roger. He is such the fat kite that I would never think he could take off and fly amongst his feathering friends again. Though, to his good credit, he makes smart management for flight after each and every meal; even with his enormous appetite. Cory is the most intelligent of this crew, watching me from his tree stool till I can find a good seating place nearby. There, as always, he would swoop down and rest himself right on my shoulders; eyeing every morsel and food product I could pull from my coat pocket, and he so pecking at it till the food was free. He seemed to always want first dibs.

When all was finished and every bird was disbursed about…

"Ah now," I smiled broadly to see the last, lone bird to inch forward, "saved the very best for last…"

And there was Landon. I have a special affinity for him. He is the more patient; waiting privately for his individual turn; never to jostle or poke through or push his brethren aside, but rather polite and esteemed in his mannerisms. He appeared more like a true southern gentleman than a small-minded pigeon. His truest art is in his courtesy, or as wisdom reaches even the smallest of fowl, he possesses a bounty load of it.

As each visit to that special bench came and went, I would often keep one eye on Landon and the other eye on the rest of them. They could be rather 'flesh' happy if my hands are too far exposed. Or hunger could drive them to be so bold in their eating habits like feasting kings at the dinner table. Landon however kept his distance and always fed in the rear of the supper; as to the gentle pigeon he appeared to be. He would never eat if another bird went around the least bit hungry. I learned quite early to pardon a small portion of my rations till the very last when I knew, with the utmost of certainty, that all the other birds were fattened to the ripe stage and no other pigeon could even wobble my way, least of all fly off with the hefty new baggage they carried.

It was such a joy to view Landon's polished humility. I peered out to make sure the coast was clear and then I pulled from my left pocket the true prize of the feast. How he would stare for a moment, and so put my smile into such laughter when he looked about. He would come ever cautiously to my feet, stare at me, flap his wings in a slight way, and lift himself to my knee where I politely fed him his desert.

It is such a frequent occurrence, that during his dainty and particular way for feeding I can softly pet and stroke his wings. He is a fancy bird that surely had the proudest of parents, and the most beautiful pigeon I have monitored to date.

**Author's Notes:**

'**A Diary's House'** is currently available for purchase on a multitude of websites including: Kobo, Barnes & Noble, Amazon, Smashwords – to name a few. More information is provided on www . cdavidmurphy . com. There is also a heartbeat series on this site called **'Language from the Heart'** . You can follow the extensive blog tour – details provided on www. promotionalbooktours . com, beginning September 24, 2012. Reviews are provided on www . goodreads . com


	2. A Diary's House Prologue Episode 2

**Episode 2 – My 'Old Man Days' in the mountains**

My mornings and evenings are much the same if the sun and weather cooperates. And as to the heart of my days I will take my simple strolls down to the local drugstore and coffee shop, meet up with 'dog-eared' Sam and 'Adams-apple' Joe (forgive the adjectives but this is what they were called). We would wait for 'Tinky' Doris to grace us with her presence, and so keep our quarters ready for the daily bet. Who on earth would prissy Doris wink at first? Well, that was the bet. Most of the time 'Adams-apple' Joe won, due to the mere fact she always giggled at the huge lump he had in the middle of his neck. He repeatedly said it was all owed to genetics and that it has been a 'lady-killer thing' since it first grew out of control during puberty.

Here at this frequented sandwich and ice cream shop (regularly esteemed as The Fat Turtle), the coffee was constantly stale. Charlie must have kept that old pot smoldering through the night until it was bone dry. It seemed he never washed that fossil coffee pot more than once in ten years. But just the same; coffee is coffee and for two cents I don't rightly believe I have the authority to complain much. Though, I must add, liquor probably wasn't as hard-proof as this.

"Tinker Bell!" Joe would cry out at the first sight of 'Tinky' Davis, "Hurry about Charlie!" Joe smarted at him as he was pouring out more rude coffee in our stained cups, "Watch this Tinker!" 'Adams-Apple' Joe would turn quickly profile, point his nose high, lift his full cup higher still, aim down, drip then drop; gulping all the way to get that Adam's apple bobbing up and down like a vicarious apple in swirling water.

"That's nothing!" 'Dog-eared' Sam spun about, pulled on his earlobes in an attempt to stretch them down to the floor; snicker, then proceed to roll his sleeves up, press hard his rolled-up fists to his shoulders, and flex about what miniscule arm muscles he might have dreamt about that he had.

"Up to fifteen pound curls in each arm!" as if that were a precocious feat to be most proud of.

"Why lookie' here!" 'Tinky' Davis, all sprite and dressed way above and beyond the occasion, would curl her linguistic pronunciation to sound like the most ardent southern belle.

"Fancy this!" As if the same old routines were all brand new to her. She adored the attention in more fancy than the foolery these two gentlemen were in display with. I felt most inconvenienced to be sitting next to two best friends who were more apt to be in childhood play than acting on their true age.

"How about you?" She would press on me.

I looked at her raw. I was not tempted by her southward drawl and rapidly-batting eyes.

"Oh," I fake-smiled, "I'm the least monkey-type of us three."

"OH POOH!" She was angry at my unwillingness to play, "A bird with brown feathers… flies without charm."

"Now let me see…" She turned back to this goof-ball display. 'Adam's Apple' Joe pressing that coffee down his throat ever harder, while pushing that knot in his throat up and down even faster, as if it were an aging piston in his car; 'Dog Eared' Sam wincing at the pain his arms were suffering through, and making every attempt to pull out his large ears even larger.

"Let me see," "she eyed them both closely, "I'll take…" They pressed more furious with all their ancient might. Then it came – the flirtatious wink right at 'Dog Eared' Sam.

"How about another round…" Joe sounded off.

"Maybe next year Sailor…" she took her soft, white gloves and draped it just past his face so he could take a whiff of her intoxicating, nose-burning perfume. His eyes rolled back as if he were in a seizure or a concocting angel had just passed his way.

She made her way about the shop to find her next prowl.

Sometimes (of course, when the weather and sun will not cooperate and it rains) we will all jump in Charlie's tin box with four wheels on it, and go about three miles or so to the flicker show; watch and speckle-eye the latest movie that had come out some five years or so ago. Sometimes we could ride his box to the show and sometimes we had to push it there. No matter, Charlie wasn't much for the mechanical side. So, more often than not, walking got us there at a faster pace.

During the annual parade we will drink hardcore, hot, cider-spelled, roof-burning lemonade that tastes just as sour if we had eaten the lemon raw. We sit in his old 'dude car' as he calls it, carry our huge American flags, wait our turn (which is always last), and honk down main street to top off the parade. Why? Because we are the oldest things in town and they love our constant spirit for being as such.

Life is as good as it has always been. The memories are long and thoughtful to reflect upon; noting, as always with a smile, that life has been a pleasant travel for me. From time to time people will ask me about my past. And with a soft smile and a quick sparkle in my eye I would say that I can speak on it another time when there is enough time to tell it in. All the while I know that there was much to tell; much indeed.

**Author's Notes:**

'**A Diary's House'** is currently available for purchase on a multitude of websites including: Kobo, Barnes & Noble, Amazon, Smashwords – to name a few. More information is provided on www . cdavidmurphy . com. There is also a heartbeat series on this site called **'Language from the Heart'** . You can follow the extensive blog tour – details provided on www. promotionalbooktours . com, beginning September 24, 2012. Reviews are provided on www . goodreads . com


	3. A Diary's House Prologue Episode 3

**Episode 3 – I Discover Bad Relations With Family**

You may very well wonder how this story shall go, and as to my distinct recollection; here it is, with my best forwarding. As I have spoken: the story begins at the youth of it; my youth.

My name is Landon Hampshire, and how noteworthy of you to recognize the fact that the one pigeon I most admired is named after me. I was born early, round about (my certificate was as approximate as any inexact certificate would be – they weren't good about keeping up with such things back then) the year of 1875, in the deep heart and mysterious mountains of North Carolina. A son of a well-to-do agricultural man who, during the beginning sentiments of my earliest life, became the burgeoning springs of a timber mogul. His whole property of ideas concentrated mainly on a two-step process. First, clear the land and sell the timber to the highest bidder; secondly, cultivate and crop that very same land for further profit. Needless to say we were the most esteemed and admired business family within this sleepy region.

Our home was more the Georgian plantation type than all else; as it would rival the wealthiest cotton entrepreneur residing much deeper in the south. All of our properties cradled two modest towns; each of which settled their banks on the most active river known near and far; the Randola River. Our home sat in quiet regal splendor within the confines of a town called Mandolin. Much of the commercial enterprising was performed in her sister town of Windrow Heights; a flat stones' throw away from Mandolin.

My father was not so much the self-made man as one might suspect. In fact, my grandfather Eldred Hampshire was a very famous sea captain who traveled more of the world in a few years than most would do so in several lifetimes. I knew nothing of him but for the vague and ambiguous tales I overheard at large family gatherings.

At these particular gatherings the table would roar with laughter until his name would crop up. Then the room would shudder with silence and quiet down for as long as our stares would last. For whatever reason, as material as it may seem, such a thing was never discussed or uttered in the presence of our large blood community. I thought it to be a rather strange and distasteful manner of deletion that a man of his apparent stature could never be reflected upon, even after his departing. His death, as unfortunate as it may seem, was far premature for his age. And of all things it did not come by the battlefield. Nor did his untimely end meet with the similar status of his making.

But as I did in fact overhear a distant cousin and my uncle once talk in a whisper; and they did make a slight promotion of the idea his death came by accidental drowning. They were within the parlor room in the downstairs west wing doodling through my father's weapon trophies; and so gawking at his treasure trove of rare hand pistols. I heard their whispers, though exaggerated and sometimes animated; but still they kept within their low tones as not to be overheard except for their mutual partnership; while I, clearly by accident, was most unobserved by them. I leaned around the corner and listened in from the next room. Their shadows appeared to crawl low along the floor and their silhouettes danced by the brims of fireplace lights.

"You don't suppose this planter would fetch a pretty price?" My cousin supposed; watching the pale pistol with interest and a concentrating, lustful stare.

"Obscene," my uncle smiled wet.

"Theft has its privileges," he conveniently deposited the gun under his firm jacket.

I wanted to intervene but I held my ground as they were the two most unlikeable characters in our family tree.

"I taught you well…" my uncle's smile returned.

"I hear they'll be a run on baggers coming south…"

"Don't suppose…"

"More regular by next spring I here, like ants on a wet dust mound…" my cousin's whispers drew more soft.

"They'll be looking for land. Land full of timber."

"In hoards," he drew closer to his father, "timber will be at a premium. Kept in contact with Sutter; plans to disburse from Rhode Island come six months from now."

"Good," my uncle settled on another pistol; eyeing it most religiously, "Will have to make a move by then."

"Found it yet?"

"The will," he stared back at my cousin, "No – but there's time. But this is of no concern. There will be another in place."

"Yes, but time is thin…"

"Hush-bound," my uncle peered around; staring about as if everything was moving and looking in on them, "He'll sell cheap otherwise; at wholesale no less, and push the markup quite handsomely. Why Josh, we'll be merry men of wealth yet."

"We won't have to beg for a feast no more…" he laughed.

The conversation was quite caustic and matter-of-fact. To the point as though they were two full-bellied vultures 'properly' fighting over which had the greatest feast of inheritance to gloat over. There was no reverence for those 'who had passed on'. But they were nothing more than the curious environment of two men's idle discussions. There was more 'to do' about my grandfather's passing on of the family fortune than the actual passing on of himself.

I must admit that I had a very refined distaste for many factions within my less-immediate family members. Their workmanship of character, the thoughtless ventures with which they seemed to be consumed by, and their infinite ways of breaching family ties left little to desire or admire them on.

My father had siblings of ill-repute; and though by blood alone did he have the bare essentials to tolerate them with.

**Author's Notes:**

'**A Diary's House'** is currently available for purchase on a multitude of websites including: Kobo, Barnes & Noble, Amazon, Smashwords – to name a few. More information is provided on www . cdavidmurphy . com. There is also a heartbeat series on this site called **'Language from the Heart'** . You can follow the extensive blog tour – details provided on www. promotionalbooktours . com, beginning September 24, 2012. Reviews are provided on www . goodreads . com


	4. A Diary's House Prologue Episode 4

**Episode 4 – My Father And Me**

Like father to son and son to father, I was the mirroring shadow to his every move. I was a most impressionable toy of his that even my shadow would follow to the identical tee on what his would do. We would play the mimicking games as far as my memory can serve me. If he were to dip his raw carrots in melted butter at the dinner table, so would I. If he were to make a ruckus round of laughter at the slightest drop of a good joke or a humoring one-liner, I would also sound off to follow with a miniature giggle in somewhat matching his. If he were to tip his hat a certain way when we were out and about, I would also tip my hat to the same precise degree and measure.

There, by the early evening fireplace light, we would sit and face each other, pass corresponding horrid expressions to see which one of us would impress more upon the other, sip ever so tightly on our hot chocolate - even when the heat and flavor were long gone, and watch the last and final embers in the fireplace sparkle and fade till mother broke into our sessions and so speak on how appropriately it had become my bedtime; or more past beyond it.

There were moments of long pleasure in my room. It was the usual and normal course of events for each evening. I could feel the early Fall chill creep past my cracked windows as I stumbled into bed. My father was not far behind. He rolled the covers over me and taxed himself one final time for the day in pulling out my 'then current' favorite story, and he reading aloud a chapter or two.

This would become the time my father and I used for his grand storytelling. Whether by truer versions or fictional yarns, it was then I was to learn about the legends and bygone eras.

Of course he would tell a tale with spirited voices and engrossing expressions; in heightening the elements to the story and making them more of a product in experience than simple reading. I often felt practically inside the story rather than an ordinary outside observer. He was surely a golden father with a golden touch for parenting - and I loved him so.

I was a flint to his spark; a burst of energy to his long standing radiance, and the man I most desired to be like. The stories he would tell; the phantom measures of imagination which streamed from his mind, and how all made an impression on how I ultimately would see the world as. But none was as great as the story he would tell of the Cherokee; the lost horizon of a world left behind in the manic inquisition of the white man's pursuit for more land, gold, and promised treasures in those long winding and mysterious mountains.

It is a Cherokee world of forgotten treasures; something left behind in the vaults of history; something left in the rubble of time itself. This would be the long lost and forgotten story my father relayed to me during one evening's storytelling:

**Author's Notes:**

'**A Diary's House'** is currently available for purchase on a multitude of websites including: Kobo, Barnes & Noble, Amazon, Smashwords – to name a few. More information is provided on www . cdavidmurphy . com. There is also a heartbeat series on this site called **'Language from the Heart'** . You can follow the extensive blog tour – details provided on www. promotionalbooktours . com, beginning September 24, 2012. Reviews are provided on www . goodreads . com


	5. A Diary's House Prologue Episode 5

**Episode 5 – One Night In My Room**

**The tale of the Kituhwa – a father's tale to his son**

"Hello Father," the door to my room popped out the hallway light like a candle that suddenly turned into a brief flair. A silhouette image appeared front-and-center in that midst. I knew it to be father. It was his time for storytelling, "Will we be reading about the great adventures of David Copperfield?"

"No," he paused, "Not tonight son…"

"Tom Sawyer then…"

"Nor him," he came with the same pause.

"Jim Hawkins, I'll say," I spoke with a bit of a whisper that all but seemed to hide within the shadows of my room - yet my father clearly heard me.

"Not to be son," he moved slowly about and shook his head as he went, "I won't take a gander at John Silver. The great pirate will have to rest tonight."

"Then Robinson Crusoe and his lonely affair," I was sure, "That must be it…" I kept my eye lauding over my father while he moved cautiously about; never seeming to inflict his expression towards mine. The bookshelf was left abandoned in its frame. The books remained still and unmoved as my father was breaking from his tradition to head directly for it, fumble about, and ask me what my mood might be for the reading on a particular night. This would be the one occasion when he would hold himself from picking a great reading in one of those books; where normal tradition and habit were broken, near my eighth birthday.

The evening was an October night and sky. The air began to turn from the warm summer musk into the start of another chilly Fall night. I had been often told this was the beginning of the year for 'autumn songs'; that trees sang throughout October. But in my listening just outside that bedroom window, the air seemed unusually still, quiet, nearly reverent; and it held an unusual cold about it.

"You'll appease me tonight Landon," he circled in an off-pattern; though finally making it to my bedside. He stalled and gently lowered himself into a sit just at my left hip.

"No story tonight father?"

"There is a story," he took his look from me towards the bookshelf, "But it's not over there…"

I leaned up to feel about his waste jacket, peer into the front part of his lapels, and then settle back as I was.

"You didn't bring it," I accused him with a mostly odd and expressive gaze; though he smiled and nearly giggled in response to this.

"Oh…" he stalled, "It's here, well enough."

"Then where is it?" I pondered.

"Up here," he pointed to his temple with a careless grin, "And here," he pointed to his heart. "The way they used to tell stories; before they ever wrote them down in books… Something you pass on to each generation. The most valuable stories to tell…"

"Kind of like a folk story," I surmised.

"You can say this," he tucked my covers around me more tightly now, "But as moving as anything you can read on a page... maybe even better…maybe even better."

Father turned to light a candle near my bed. All of a sudden the room lit up into a bright glow and steady flame. And so the dancing flickers pranced around the room in shadows. As if someone had started up an old Irish tune for them to dance by. The smell of new smoke filled the area next to my nightstand with a waft of pure-burning wick. The shadows were long and reaching into the ceiling rafters as he began his slow-trotting to verse out the old lives of this old tale.

"Let's begin," I smiled; pulling up the covers near to my eyes.

"They say there is a red oak tree…One so old that it seems to be the wisest bark to ever live…"

"Is this where the story comes from?" I eagerly asked, "The red oak tree?"

"Oh of certain," father replied, "The red oak was the only thing that could live long enough to tell it. Otherwise, it would have been lost forever…"

"I think it would be quite frightening to have a red oak tree start in on talking with you…" I suggested, "Without announcing itself first to keep from scaring you!"

"Ohh," my father shrugged in a smile, "I don't know. A soft voice in a whisper is never scary. You feel the peace before it speaks…" He smiled and gazed outside my window.

"You say you have?"

"Could be…"

"Was it?" I pressed, "Did you?"

He paused in another smiling thought of his.

"It turned out to be a most unexpectant pleasure," Father poked into my side, "She said she was old and tired, and she had lived too long already; but that she wanted to tell someone this story; so they could hear and know the story…and it would live on for another thousand years."

"That long!" I was amazed and astounded, "That's longer than I can remember!"

"I would forget long before then…"

"Who did she tell it to?" I was nearly frantic in coming out of my bed, "Did she tell you dad?"

"One day," he whispered low in a softer melody, "I was walking to school and I was tripped up by her roots. When I fell I looked back and didn't see the roots. I looked up in the tree. Maybe something fell. I walked around the tree several times – nothing. I began to walk by it and I tripped again. This time I knew something had come up out of the ground and tripped my feet. I looked back and I saw the roots go back and settle in the ground."

"You must have been scared!" I was shocked.

"Surprised; more like it."

"Did you run?"

"No," he smiled

"Run?" I was more serious than fearful this time.

"No," his smile grew, "A face appeared between two large arm branches and the tree lifted me up to its tallest branches. This is where I could see everything so long in the horizon; this is where she began to tell the tale."

"You had to be scared…" My suggestion was gushing out.

"Oh," he grinned with a silly reply, "Of course I wasn't. There was a peace about her - a calm I can't describe; like an illusion, but it was real – so very, very real. She began most promptly, just at the time school starts, and she did not finish until after school let out."

"Where was this? Where is the red oak tree now?"

"Dead," he shook his head.

"Dead?" I inquired.

"Long dead," he shook out his head further, "She lived nearly a thousand years; as old as the story goes. When she was a young stripling…this is where the story came to begin."

"Ever told anyone?"

"No one," he swore on me, "Kept it a secret. I went back a month or two afterwards to talk to her one last time, but she had died; her branches were all withered and dry and bare any leaves; the leaves were fallen - gone."

I was despondent, "That is sad… I would hope I could talk with her," I looked shyly at my father.

"It was her time…" he whispered.

"Will I like the story?" I was more concerned at this juncture.

"Someone else needs to know," his face grew into a grim stare, "the story of the Kituhwa…"

"The Kituhwa…" I echoed out his sentiments.

"The dream that once was the Cherokee…" his voice tailed off as he spoke through this sentence.

He spoke of this tale from the heart which no page or paragraph could rightly do it honor, and so place with it the range of emotion and adequate justice due to it. I did listen to his every breath and word in the very escape of my own; I dare say I held both for nearly two complete hours. My eyes never blinked; my attention was in rapture and entirely captivated. The trees about, on that moody evening, began now to stir and whistle a blow in unison outside my windows; all the while my father was tearing through this tale with the vengeance by every spoken word.

I would shudder at the right moment; bear all devils' fright at the right moment, and cautiously shiver when the right moment arrived. I was the perfect audience, and he most assuredly the perfect teller to it.

The North Carolina lands deep within the mountains are indeed steeped in charismatic folklore and alluring mystery. And of all the tales that would normally translate from generation-to-generation; perhaps this one was the finest of them all.

Mandolin and Windrow Heights have always been partner townships since the earliest times. Both sat quite intimate near the Randola River and its vagrant shorelines. As legend so goes, both towns were actually married once. And through their very inauspicious and rocky union came this single offspring; a violent, undertow, heaping-currents, whitewater rapids, steep-climb ridges and hairpin-sheering-cliffs-of-a-river. It is said that death does not visit the Randola often; but in fact it resides there year-round. So many names have accumulated and have fallen into that river over the years that it would make most stutter to think of what madness and backdrop could birth such a name and legend as this. Yet as my father did relate to me that one early October evening, so do I extend to you.

The earliest inhabitants were Cherokee. Within a few hundred years, early settlers with the mixture of trappers and Anglo Saxon travelers attempted to pass by into the Kentucky valleys and beyond. Some stayed in finding home and Heaven there; others stayed to allow winter to pass before traveling further on at the beginning of the subsequent spring. There were all sorts of people who were the universal kindred; English settlers, French trappers, Scottish hired hands and land keepers, Irish immigrants and cattle headers. Even some Spanish adventurers gave their part to settle here. Peace, by and large, prevailed through even the most turbulent times. The area brewed with increased activity, economy, and trade. Languages, lyrics, and folklore were transferred from one to another, and mixed in this continual melting pot of cultures and customs. With such a diverging landscape and vast formations, many new settlers wondered how such a place could be contrived and made through the long years of history.

"Now you will listen most intently." My father so warned, "There will not be a second telling to this story."

I fanatically shook my head with agreement on this.

"This story must never stretch beyond this room," he came again, "At least not for the time being."

I kept to my silence, though my eyes were square on his. I could not even spare a blink.

"The Cherokee have often told that the moon and sun are actually married; wed at the beginning of time. Their most prized offspring was earth itself. During the day, the father, or sun, would look after earth; the moon, likewise, during the evening hours."

My father took in a pause, and then continued.

"Day and night, for ages and for as long as it is known, the sun and moon carefully nurtured this good earth and all that lived on it. This here, the lands we are on, used to be flat lands; meadows, and long trailing forests for as far as the eye could see. This was when the first of the Cherokees came into this land."

"How long ago was this?" I quickly wondered aloud.

"When the red oak tree was very young, the Cherokees came. She said even the bounty of the Randola River was more like a lake than a river; the waters unstirred and unmoved. The red oak tree told me it was quite a tranquil place."

"I believe I have seen it in my dreams father," I wondered out loud, and with a curious stare his way, "I wish I could speak with her…

"You will keep in mind the sun and moon…" he suggested.

"Oh yes father," I grinned.

"Then here is the tale of the Kituhwa…" his eyes grew to a bulge and brilliant white, "and the great legend of the Cherokee…"

**Author's Notes:**

'**A Diary's House'** is currently available for purchase on a multitude of websites including: Kobo, Barnes & Noble, Amazon, Smashwords – to name a few. More information is provided on www . cdavidmurphy . com. There is also a heartbeat series on this site called **'Language from the Heart'** . You can follow the extensive blog tour – details provided on www. promotionalbooktours . com, beginning September 24, 2012. Reviews are provided on www . goodreads . com


	6. A Diary's House Prologue Episode 6

**Episode 6 - The tale of the Kituhwa – a father's tale to his son**

_As it were the Cherokees stood above all else, being that their length of stay extended beyond all others. The legend so goes there once resided two great tribes in these mountains; one lay to the east, the other lay to the west - one of peace, one of war. But their separable roots only lay with the absence of knowledge in not knowing that the other great and enormous tribe ever existed. For many years, by this very clause and truce, peace did rule and the Father Sun and the Mother Moon were pleased. _

_Within the peaceful tribe of the east there came to be known a great and powerful Iroquois warrior named Kituhwa. He was a magnificent man of principal, reason, fortitude, love, peace, happiness, strength, character and grace. He ruled by the absolute favor of his people. His stamina was enormous and his compassion was of equal standing. During Kituhwa's lengthy reign, Father Sun was very kind with its fortune to his people. The weather was always fair; food lay plentiful and in vast quantity; rains would come when the need arose; the winters were held in check and be kept mild. The_ _people were wealthy in their happiness and this tribe prospered throughout all the seasons of the year._

_The western tribe however fought by violence and aggression within their own kindred clan. How so their actions cursed the very core of the land. They stripped it of its resources as timber tumbled onto the mountain floors. Animals were sported for the kill and left to decay. Tournaments were held within this self-inflicting tribe, where men fought to their deaths. Tribal councils always resolved into some carnage of human sacrifice and violent destruction. Father Sun viewed this increasing tragedy from afar, seeing whatever this western tribe touched was left in ruins and incredible defamation. Mother Moon pleaded with Father Sun at every sunrise and sunset to intervene and destroy the tribe of the west._

_It was never the desire or wish for Father Sun to do such a thing. For many weeks he deliberated over this and he gave the western tribe every hope and chance to change; but none came. The time had come to end the western tribe's plight. _

_Hot firing winds blew in from Father Sun's very core; crossing every valley, hill and lands of earth, and leaving all else untouched until reaching the western tribe. They bore down from the south and torched most everything that lay within this infested land. Rivers were bleached dry and turned to sand dust; what remaining trees were incinerated as they stood; the sky turned red with anger and revenge. But the western tribe saw the winds come before they hit and they dug deep within the wells of earth. Most survived the torching realms of those fire winds. They mocked and laughed on Father Sun when the tribe members rose from the smoking ashes around them. _

_Their hands were lifted in defiance; their feet stomped with opposition. The western tribe had no reverence for anything, nor any measure of thanksgiving to what was given to them, but never rightfully received. Storms brewed soon thereafter from further west; storms of mighty calamity and destruction. Clouds rolled in like wet fire and scorching downpours as sheets of rain rushed forward and pelted the western tribe in an unrelenting shower. It was like spears of droplets to them, and the western tribe had to go back into their hiding places below. They huddled and amassed themselves there like caught animals in an unforgiving trap. The waters fell as rain and the crest levels rose as floods into the valleys. _

_Some were drowned, yet most took to flight into the far-reaching hills. With weapons in hand and destruction most settled in their hearts, they ran forward as a stampeding herd. They pushed through the outskirts of their own devastated land._

_They say that Father Sun closed his eye in a moment of eclipsing horror. And all darkness fell upon the earth when Mother Moon came to talk to him. The earth shuddered in fear with such an earthquake-like force. Indeed, the western tribe had discovered its kindred eastern clan there, sitting in Heaven. _

_It is believed when they saw such a sight, the western tribe howled like pack wolves; with black eyes of death, and fists full of hardened coal. Where two polar worlds collided and met; where the eastern and western tribes pierced into a titanic struggle for survival; where one must kill to live, and the other must live to endure. _

_This catastrophic evil; this band of sinister souls, whose long shadows spread nothing more than doom; wailed and howled, raged and shouted, till like a community of spirited bees, they ascended to feast on this awaiting tragedy._

_Kituhwa quickly summoned his great courage from within and he brought forward his greatest tribesman to counter the bloodthirsty hoards of western tribal men who were descending from the mountain ranges above. A tribe for peace has no stamina for war, nor could they redefine the inevitable outcome which was soon to take place. But with the gracious sacrifice they possessed, with the skill for duty, and the love for what they were, they kept the western tribe from interceding for a time. _

_It seemed this war was kept in a standstill for as long as possible .It was then the eastern village women and children began to assemble and flee; scattering as they could to find refuge in the corners and crevices of their own homeland. _

_It is said that Kituhwa looked back in a deep search for his departing bride, and by some natural order of instinct did she, at that moment, stop and turn to find him. Their eyes locked for one last time as he, by his very expression, demanded of her to depart and find the very spot where they two, only knew of. _

_It was a place of seclusion; a place of seeming security; a place where they went often and felt secure in; a place where she could go._

_There came a crying rain then as Father Sun and Mother Moon wept together over what was transpiring. The landscape was violently torn from its intended peace. Valiancy sat so well with the eastern tribe as they, one by one, began to fall victim to the western tribe; and the outcome had so made its sunset into reality. The war was turning; the barriers broken; the eastern tribe losing its members by single slaughter, till Kituhwa found himself singled out and alone. A chase ensued to the height of the highest mountain range. And to the highest tree above the mountaintop, Kituhwa climbed upon its highest tip. They call it Clingman's Ledge. _

_The foes from the western tribe let out their howls and danced through this crying rain, round about that very tree, that very same tall majestic red oak tree, as the western tribe members tried to cut at its base. And with the fierceness of utmost retribution, lightening began to strike from every corner of this heavy downpour, striking each western foe into death until Kituhwa's life and safety was spared._

_Now Kituhwa's bride made her way through the forestry realm till she met with the place of her destination; that secret hiding place. All of her kindred fold, left and scattered about, were hunted and slaughtered but for her. There she resided in fear, and she could hear the echoes and cries of all her tribe people being hunted. Still and silent, without even a whisper, she kept quiet in her most special hiding place. _

_But being the great trackers they were, members of the western tribe soon discovered her trail and so formed a massive search to find her out. She lay knelt onto the ground; shivering in her own fear as Father Sun and Mother Moon gazed onward and watched the drama unfold. Yet with such a force and mighty plea, and with their collective powers united, the most fiendish flood and horrific earthquake unleashed and cast the landscape about into terrible turmoil but for her single hiding place. _

_She lay in stillness as all else around her collapsed, heaved, and clashed in a horrendous roar. Mountains rose even higher, torn from their own bellies; and created sheer cliffs and hard rock formations the heights of a thousand feet. Floods rumbled through with so the mighty rush, force, and rage of the most savage rivers; and so there was born what is known today as the Randola River. It is said that out of utter revenge the Sun and Moon had every surviving member of the western tribe pulled away from where they stood at that very moment and thrown into the depths and waters of the Randola River to drown in. But all the while Kituhwa's bride lay still and seemingly asleep for most of three hours, when she awoke to find herself on an island; Sebastian's Island, in the violent midst of the Randola River. _

_And to this highest mountaintop where Kituhwa remained, he called for her with the strong reaches of his cries; his calls echoed all throughout the mountains. The sounds cascaded through the forest, yet bore no return of her response. His attempts continued to be unanswered as he anxiously leapt and sped throughout the range he stood upon, as if he were a frantic buck galloping in search of his doe. He looked to the Heavens; his eyes full of tears, where he bent to the earth and wept openly for her. He did not know if she survived and he cried all through the night in thinking she was lost; lost forever. _

_It was then the skies parted and Mother Moon blew down a soft and twirling wind; a small tornado which was harmlessly self-contained in its own funnel. _

_There, to Kituhwa's astonished look and stare, it met with the eastern tribe leader and it appeared to have the desire for him to follow, which Kituhwa did as much. For three days Kituhwa walked in the shadow of this funnel; day into night; night back into day; without retirement or sleep, till they both met with the violence of the massive Randola River. All the while, Father Sun and Mother Moon carefully watched over him. _

_The Randola's white waters were so rampant, the undertows and undercurrents so extreme that it appeared the very spirits of the western tribe were leaping from her waters in the chance and hope they could escape these prison waters. Hands seemingly emerged from those watery bounds. Hands so desperately grabbing upon the shorelines; eyes and expressions looked as if they appeared in the backdrop of every spray head that rose from the waters' cresting. _

_Kituhwa watched as this gentle funnel began to stretch itself over the top of the waters, pausing at the edge in wait of him. He cried once more for his bride. The echoes tore through the valleys and water streams like a raging wildfire in a hurry. But no response came and his heart fell. Slowly, by the inner courage he bore, Kituhwa walked into the raging river, giving no resistance to its formidable tides. He could not fight anymore as the waves ferociously pounded him. But to the point, and in such a swift and directing movement, this funnel moved over him and settled in his midst to protect him. _

_The waters were raging and pounding like mad men in violent hunger. Yet within the funnel's domain where Kituhwa was, the waters were calm and still. Both Kituhwa and the funnel moved past Fury's Fold, Demon's Dredge and the Devil's Turn, down beyond Dead Man's Gap, down through Belail Waterfalls, which at its longest stretch downward, fell some four hundred feet from its topping foam; and at last reaching Babel's Cliffs where Sebastian's Island sat in its midst and equal surroundings. _

_There Kituhwa looked through the funnel to find the presence of his bride. She stood on the shorelines waiting for him. Her expression spoke to him of hope and survival; relief and of ultimate joy. Both were reunited there. And as he came to meet her, the funnel softly dissipated and disappeared before them both. They knelt and wept tears as bountiful as the waters surrounding them, embracing one another with no seeming release until the night came and they fell asleep together._

_It has been spoken Kituhwa and his bride were the Adam and Eve of the Cherokee nation; living through their lives upon this remote, beautiful, and inescapable island. It is where nature and Heaven had spun a world of perfection and absolute symmetry. They say when birds are viewed rising from the island's base and roving about these enormous cliffs of Babel, that they are truly the spirits of Kituhwa and his bride reaching for Heaven._

**Author's Notes:**

'**A Diary's House'** is currently available for purchase on a multitude of websites including: Kobo, Barnes & Noble, Amazon, Smashwords – to name a few. More information is provided on www . cdavidmurphy . com. There is also a heartbeat series on this site called **'Language from the Heart'** . You can follow the extensive blog tour – details provided on www. promotionalbooktours . com, beginning September 24, 2012. Reviews are provided on www . goodreads . com


	7. A Diary's House Prologue Episode 7

**Episode 7 – I Am To Keep A Secret**

"Now do you understand the secret?" My father softly whispered, as not to stir anyone else up from bed.

"I think so…"

"Now you know why it must remain as such."

"I think so…" I was more confused this time.

"Tick-a-lock," he pronounced; all the while twisting his fingers about his lips, and further all the while holding to his constant, dramatic, and overly-serious stare over me.

"Tick-a-lock?" I had to question.

"Tick-a-lock…" He shook his head in agreement.

We kept our eyes poised on one another for that moment; smiling a bit, but never saying anything further.

I do remember that early fall evening when my father spoke of this legend; as if the moment and point of it had just left me. I often wonder where truth and legend came into friendship with one another and where folklore might have taken over to fill in the empty spots; yet, as to my knowledge on all that I know, the story is as heartfelt and true as any.

The look on his face; the complete and formidable stare my father gave me there, comes rushing into my memories whenever I take a chance to reflect on it, or dream into the heart of any night since then.

How the old and natural whistle sounds of those winds blew into my bedroom as my father, by his loving hands, curled the covers just over my chin, gave to me a soft kiss on my cheek, and said his 'goodnights' with that usual engaging smile of his. After my father left I would stare into the glass ocean of my windows and watch the dancing tree limbs tickle the other side of the glass. I wondered to myself how Kituhwa must have felt and how I would like to meet him someday.

This story played on me as much as an obsession would. No other tale had more of an imprint with me. I thought of it often through the workings on each of my days.

It is here that I come to the age of thirteen; closer to adulthood but still rather far away. My dreams were more milked with imagination than of idle wandering in those years. I would daydream whenever I had the measure to take delight in it, no matter where I might be. I saw the journey in my mind; of the life ahead and all the hopes that were carried in them.

Being a child of thirteen you are still the miniature person you will become. And yet, crossing the bridge from childhood and into being an adult, you find the mixture of both worlds still taking root inside of you. There were places where my mind could only take me to; that I still had the chance of adventure to see for myself in the days ahead. But those times were quickly approaching; far sooner than I would have ever imagined before their actual occurrence within my life.

Still I would often wander on the wings of that fertile imagination over this story of Kituhwa and his bride; upon the birth of the Cherokee nation; of life in these glorious mountains I see as home to me.

It was like a spark that ignited whenever that internal match lit out. During my schooling hours, into the workings of my education, during the soft evenings when all of our family members came to sit about the fireplaces of our home and strengthen the ties between us; I thought of it always.

There were times we would take the lanterns out with us onto our nightly journeys or our horseback rides through the roaming hills of our beautiful lands; when we would spot the sunset and watch it cast over the ridges a brilliant hue. When the sun moved slowly down over the immediate horizon, I would think of it.

Sometimes my father would take us all out in those evenings, book-in-hand, where we would curl around him for a good read at the edge of our vast properties; and the beautiful sunset being that glorious backdrop for us to settle in. It was most particularly beautiful after a good, late-evening shower.

I thought of how the sun and moon looked so reflective in those late evening times. And in this partnership of nature, how they had grown a little wiser to make more beauty out of those evening hours. I wondered how Kituhwa and his bride would see these sunsets as. Or how, for myself, the sunsets on Sebastian's Island would look to me from those long-ago years.

I began to feel a strange, though certain kinship with Kituhwa. I can not speak on the measures as to why. But that we were in our own rights, partners to some long-stretching bridge through time. There was nothing more which had greater enamoring with me. I wanted to find that red oak tree my father spoke of. Perhaps an ancient seedling had developed and it too, could speak to me. Perhaps there was more to the story than what I knew.

There were times I would travel by Babel's Cliffs, gaze out over this long yard of beauty and nature, see the falls as they tumbled like droplets into that bayish, 'long-eyed view' ocean below. I would watch intently over this long-distanced island of Sebastian's. Maybe I could see Kituhwa and his bride playing in those pools below. I seemed to hear the winds of some ancient echo brushing up at me while I peered over those enormous cliffs. At times I would pray; at others I would stretch out my body at the tip of this cliff, feel the winds cuddle me, and I dream as if I were a bird making ready to fly over this arena.

But what remains is as it always is; the story of Kituhwa. Soon I would venture into a world I partly dreamed of and I partly never knew existed. These are the times of childhood; these are the times of youth; a travel once in life of which there would be no return to. I could feel it slipping beyond my own experiences now.

But this very story of Kituhwa had melted itself into my heart indelibly so. It kept its step with me through each day after its telling. The branding was complete; the passions were swelling within. I knew the time had come for me to act and become the man that I would be.

**Author's Notes:**

'**A Diary's House'** is currently available for purchase on a multitude of websites including: Kobo, Barnes & Noble, Amazon, Smashwords – to name a few. More information is provided on www . cdavidmurphy . com. There is also a heartbeat series on this site called **'Language from the Heart'** . You can follow the extensive blog tour – details provided on www. promotionalbooktours . com, beginning September 24, 2012. Reviews are provided on www . goodreads . com


	8. A Diary's House Chapter 1 Episode 1

**Chapter 1**

**I Begin My Journey.**

**Episode 1 – Mother's Advice**

My mother once told me a man has to do what he thinks is right, regardless of whether other people think it is correct; that is, in order for one to achieve some level of independence from others and thus gather in their unbridled respect. All in the sense if 'manhood' were to be established by its apparent heir (in this particular case, it being myself) at an early age, he would have less trouble in life. Noting this great and glorious philosophy, the impressions it made, and the source by which it came to me, I took it upon myself to learn the heart and soul to its powerful banner, the legends in its ritual, and the profound message it seemed to speak on me at the ripe age a boy is more suitable for schooling, rather than testing his will for 'Manhood'.

There are many merits to what she spoke. I suppose I had accumulated them like some old rug that I was currently dragging through time, and without the truest understanding that I was doing so. But by their enormous weight upon me, they became more of instinct than taught lessons over the years. What lessons I have learned from my mother play more of an indelible impression with me than mere dates, facts, and the wherewithal of any story I could precisely speak on.

She was a powerful, humane woman of the utmost virtue. Her name was Angelica Hampshire, with hair of deep raven color that held onto black as much as the deepest part of night would. The eyes of the bluest emerald oceans; a smile that would bring any laughter to the hardest of souls; a heart with the finest sense for sacrifice and gentle endurance; all these qualities she had brought into my life. She always seemed to keep herself well within the properties of a lady. And she so possessed the casual wisdom when the need arose.

Even up to this day I often think of her. Whenever the memory of her comes as a wisp to me; to see her glorious smile there in my thoughts; it would reach from beyond; from those long, escapable years to where I was at in that very present moment; touch me, and so cause me to smile in response.


	9. A Diary's House Chapter 1 Episode 2

**Episode 2 – A Church By The Brook**

But yet I do remember well the point where my journey began. I and two of my school friends met in open quarters near the old church brook which was nestled on the outskirts of Mandolin. The old church sat bleakly on its bank with a steeple seemingly at the foot of Heaven; reaching out to the clear stars about our heads as we spoke.

It was a simple structure, this church, with one room for services and prayer, and with a small basement where most Sunday school classes were being held. The master frame was much like an oven during summer worship services; blistering our souls when the minister got hot-on-heavy with his sermon; and the temperature did also. It was white painted, simple-square and parched from the summer sting of heat. The stairs were cracked and chipped and in need of dire repair. One door stood in front and another to the basement level on one side. Large oaks nestled at each side of it. One with a branch so peculiarly bent that I often thought it was making some obscure gesture to shelter the church, especially when the minister was on such a tirade binge. Sometimes the air bore down on us with such a stuffy fume that this peculiar tree seemed interested in giving us whatever refuge that was necessary.

On this night however, the moon remained high and bold with light, peaking through one of the oak counterparts with its single, yet white-like reflection. We sat assembled near a mobile campsite by a fire that would glow almost to its peek, in-between the church and the brook just below.

The purpose for our meeting does not leave me so conveniently. There was but one reason for our trio gathering; to become men; to enter the age of manhood. Like children exploring a new world; we were there, tempting fate, humanity, and all the revels of posterity that we could muster. We had a task, a point of determination that would prove beyond all doubt we were true men. It would be a joint venture requiring skill and dexterity, which brought utter fear to the most courageous; to cross into the Randola River and enter Sebastian's Island.

We all three had pre-arranged to meet at the dimmest hour of that particular Sunday night, absent any parental permission to do so of course. Once all else had fallen quiet within our homes each of us snuck out from the comforts of our rooms; undetected and into the stronghold of that night. I, by my own demise, jumped from my second-story window as if I had the clumsy fortitude of a blind and babbling-drunk robber. Even with all the episodes and traditions of knowing my own estate and home by heart, to the very point of knowing how many steps it would take to travel from 'here' to 'there' or 'there' to 'here', I could not have been less ecliptic in my approach.

I had managed to find and rediscover every element within my surroundings that would create the most profound sensation of noise. First of all, there came the latticework just outside my window; standing out like some trip-wire to alert everyone upon my whereabouts and my adventure. Then came the resounding crash of tin canisters the helpers had left out that very evening, round to the back corner of the house; a horse troth, a nice high-pitched bucket, rakes and shovels left over by the gardening worker's who were employed to do planting for my mother.

And yet, to my happy surprise, no one stirred from the commotion, or so it seemed at that moment. So I quickly made my way from the shores of my long driveway and down, nearly three miles, to where the church nestled closed to the creek, and my two friends sat impatiently waiting my arrival. We held to our prescribed allegiance; Jonathan, Thomas, and I then built that weak-ember fire right there on those grounds.

So there I sat in alliance with these two fellow conspirators to do our parent's regulations a bit of harm. Coming together as we were, plotting the sort of thing that would make us men; seeing how our adventure would take a grand measure of courage and fortitude.

There was Tommy; the self-imposed, articulate one. The young lad with a spot more intelligence than most his age, and who had a more proper stage about him. It was quite evident he would look upon himself with a sense of grandeur and pride. He was blind to that simple contradiction - that he constantly displayed a rather weak stomach when even the slightest of perils might come his way, though he might fancy himself as the bravest of souls when danger was not in the mix. I took little regard in his elevated sense of himself. But I knew I would need to be on guard about the times Tommy might feel the need to bolt on us. I had been told that many intelligent people had a deep and intimate sense of cowardliness; Tommy was no different.

There also was Jonathan; the strong, freckled, silent type who had very little by way of counterfeit heirs and false perceptions; but possessed the capability of either turning good or bad. He was far beyond his years in that he was not an impressionable boy, nor did he find amazement in much of anything. He took a liking to me, but for what reason I could not tell. He had the indigenous nature and long tradition of being a farmer; a pure breed and hard-born one for this single purpose. His life had already been settled and I am not sure he felt it to be more of a grace than a scourge. There seemed a lost, but deep sense of discouragement within his thoughts; though he was not one to regularly make pronouncements about his self-prescribed identity.

And at last there was me; of ordinary traits and ordinary abilities. I was nothing special; just a shadow boy finding his way into manhood.


End file.
